Alley Cat
by Rosmarina
Summary: *FTLOW winner of Best Erotic Scene* After watching Alice put up with sexual harassment at work for far too long, Bella feels her lover needs some guidance dished out with a heavy hand. Femmeslash. BDSM/power exchange themes.


**Disclaimer**: SM owns Twilight. I just play in her sandbox. No copyright infringement intended.

**A/N: **Originally posted to the For the Love of Women contest and winner of the Host's Award for Best Erotic Scene. Special thanks to my pre-readers **winterstale **and **housesittingrobin**. It wouldn't be what it is without you both.

_**This story deals with the emotional fallout of sexual harassment in the workplace and explores themes of BDSM and power exchange. This is fiction and is no substitute for research, personal inquiry, and above all communication with your partner. Be safe, sane and consensual.**_

* * *

I balance my motorcycle helmet, guitar case, and house keys as I wipe my feet on the mat outside the door of our flat. It's been a long day. I pulled ten hours at my legit job at the newsstand, then another two changing tires on motorcycles for Demetri for cash under the table. I didn't get the gig I wanted, and the black electrical tape over the holes in my army surplus boots is leaking again. I roll my shoulders trying to shake off the weight of the day. It doesn't move, but the least I can do is wipe off the street grime instead of tracking it in.

Alice is already at the little table in the kitchen with her drawing pad and a handful of pens when I let myself inside. Our flat's so small I can see her there from the doorway as I set my guitar case in the corner and hang up my helmet and leather jacket. She closes the tablet, and her short black hair swings back from her heart-shaped face as she tilts it up to me in greeting. "Hello, you."

"Hey, baby." I lean down to kiss her cheek and she squirms away from the cold of my nose, but her smile leaves no doubt she's happy to see me. The London sky is gray and rainy this time of year, not so different than the one I'd be under if I'd never made it out of Forks, but that smile is a slice of sunshine that seems like it was made just to warm me up from the inside out, like it was meant just for me. Like maybe everything I've been through – every hard choice, every lucky break – led me right to that smile and the woman who wears it.

"Just toasted cheese and a tin of soup tonight, Bells. Rent due, and all." She points at the table where a plate and bowl are waiting for me, still hot. How she knows exactly when I'll be home I'll never know, but she just loves to have hot food waiting on the table for me on days like this when the weather's crap and she gets home first.

"Looks great. And probably better you didn't splurge. I didn't get that gig." I rub my hands on my jeans trying to warm them a little. "Maybe Demetri will give me some more work."

"Not to worry, heard today there might be a few more shifts on offer down the pub."

_More_ hours?

I raise an eyebrow at her. "Who quit this time?"

What I really mean is what did that ass Paul do now? Turnover is high down at Three Feathers since Maggie got diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and her son got the run of the joint. My teeth grind as I think of the reasons why all the staff he hires – always young and attractive women – keep quitting. Reasons like _I'm just giving you a compliment_ and _it was an accident _and _there wasn't enough room to get by without brushing past you._

Alice shoots me the look, the one that says _don't start_, and hands me a napkin with an arched eyebrow of her own. "Go on then. Tuck in."

It's the bossy tone she takes with rowdy customers and my mouth twists in a smirk.

"Yes, mum," I tease, mimicking her clipped accent. Her hazel eyes flash with amusement and the mock outrage on her face makes me laugh. She looks like she'd snap my ass with a tea towel right now if one was handy. I wouldn't mind actually. I like it when she starts something that I get to finish.

I pick up my spoon and begin to eat. Ali takes my unoccupied left hand and pulls it across the table towards her, pushing the sleeve of my thermal shirt out of her way. She snaps the cap off a black pen with her teeth and starts drawing on my wrist just past the spot where it bends when I play the guitar.

The food isn't fancy, but it's hot and filling and made with love. Home less than five minutes and already my day's looking up. I glance down to see what she's scribbling on me. There are two flowers side-by-side, outlined in black, filled in with pink, and each with a few spiky green leaves peeking out from behind the petals.

I wrinkle my nose. "_Pink roses_? Really, Alice?"

"I've not finished yet, have I?" she defends primly, but the pen cap in her mouth ruins her scolding tone. Amused, I watch patiently as she deftly adds curves and lines in both black and color and by the time she switches to a different pen with a finer tip to hash in some shading, I'm totally digging the design.

"There." She pops the cap back onto her pen with a flourish and sits back in her chair, clearly pleased with herself.

The roses on my wrist adorn the eye sockets of an Ed Hardy style skull sitting atop a rendition of my electric guitar. It's positioned perfectly so I can see it out of the corner of my eye if I look down at my left hand when changing chords.

"You'll get the next gig. I can feel it."

A piece of that immovable weight on my shoulders seems to melt and slide away. Ali's quiet confidence in me never wavers. It shouldn't surprise me because that willingness to see the best in people, to give and nurture, is just so _her_. But sometimes the way she loves me catches me off guard, reminds me how much it means to me, reminds me to be worth it. She is my rock. And I'm hers. I squeeze her hand and rub my thumb over her fingers when she's done blowing gently on my wrist to help dry the wet ink.

"What's this?" I nudge her drawing pad.

She shrugs. "Just doodles."

Her voice is light but something's off. I put my spoon down and open the tablet to the page she used today.

It's a landscape, done in black and white. To call this _just doodles_ is completely inadequate. In the foreground is a single fallen tree limb full of bare-but-reaching branches. It's lying on ground that is absolutely flat in every direction, dry and cracked, lifeless, deserted. The lines of the drawing are fine and detailed in the foreground but thicken and blur at the horizon giving the sense that there _is_ life there at the edge, but it's so very far away. The sky is thick with clouds that seem at once to be both permanent and moving away. The clouds will reach that horizon long before the viewer.

It's beautiful, but desolate.

I begin to notice small streaks of red and brown, so closely woven into the detailed textures that you don't see them at first glance. Subtle touches of green at the horizon. It's a neat trick of the eye. So… not a black and white then, but… drained of color. The difference seems significant.

I look down at the bold and lively skull on my wrist, think about the smile on her face when I came home. Definitely significant.

"Something else happen at work today, babe?"

She sighs. "Not really." Shrugs again.

"Paul. That–" I shake my head, biting back the string of profanity on the tip of my tongue.

"You _know_ how unwell Maggie's been," she says, as if that accounts for it all. I hear what she isn't saying, what we've been over again and again.

Ali's known Maggie for a long, long time. _She and my mum were thick as thieves _she'd call it, and when Ali's mum died in a car accident leaving her on her own at nineteen, Mags was there. She's been a substitute mother of sorts for the last three years. With the way Paul mismanages the business, Ali can't even imagine walking away from this job and leaving Maggie in the lurch.

"If she were well enough to run the pub, Paul wouldn't dare pull that bollocks with the girls. When she gets back…" Ali trails off, tilting her head down and away from me, letting her hair fall in front of her face. I think the excuse sounds as flimsy to her as it does to me. The chemo isn't going well. There's no guarantee Maggie will ever be well enough to run the pub again, and even if she does… how long does Ali think she should endure Paul's shit?

I try to catch her eye. "Come on, Ali. You don't have to let him treat you like that."

"I don't _let_ him, Bells!" Her voice rises in pitch and volume.

I can feel the constriction in my throat as I react and my tone matches hers. "Then tell him to keep his fucking mouth shut and his hands to himself."

She's silent but the empty dishes clatter angrily as she stacks them and takes them to the sink.

I stay at the table trying to chill. We're not quite fighting, but it could tip over to that any minute. There's cold lead in my chest at the thought. If I follow her now I'll say something rash. Well, something more rash.

Why can't she just knock him on his ass, like I did with Jake?

I twirl one of Ali's pens on the tabletop as I remember hanging with Jake and Quil, following them around, getting into all the same trouble they did, keeping my dark brown hair long and braiding it just like I was one of the Rez boys. Jake always teasing me and calling me a tomboy. I did everything they did – rode crappy old dirt bikes when we were younger, graduated to fixing up rusty old motorcycles nobody else wanted, cliff-diving, everything – right down to ogling the Rez girls. Jake and I were inseparable, best friends. How could he have missed it? For that matter how could I?

I even looked at the porno mags they passed around, ragging on each other about pages getting wrinkled or sticky. "That's disgusting!" I'd say, but I couldn't look away, couldn't help but remember those pictures late at night in the dark under the covers with my hands between my legs and my breath hitching in my throat. Breasts and hair and shiny red lips, long painted fingernails, thighs spread wide and shiny pink in between. That was supposed to be me someday, right? On my back for some guy? So how come I always pictured the girl on her back as if I was the guy on top of her?

Broke my hand on Jake's jaw figuring it out when he kissed me by surprise that first warm spring day sophomore year. I caught him off-guard and put him flat on his butt but he barely had even a bruise to show for it, and I ended up in a cast with no cliff-diving or motorcycling for six weeks. Funny thing though, that's when I wrote my first song.

Ali stands in the kitchen still facing away from me. She runs the tap to fill the sink with hot water for the washing up. I study the tense line of her back.

I get it. Really, I do. Ali feels guilty, like it's somehow disloyal to Maggie to despise her son even though Paul is a sexist pig, a lazy ass and a bad manager. She's angry at Paul for running his mother's business into the ground while Maggie's too ill to do anything to stop it and probably doesn't even know. And because Ali cares so damn much, she feels responsible for not saying or doing more to stop it. But how do you tell someone that their grown son is a disgrace and squandering everything they ever worked for?

Then there are the other girls to worry about, too. When Ali's on shift, Paul seems to fixate on her and leave them alone more, but it pisses me off that she sacrifices herself like that. It's his fault – the manipulative little shit – and she takes it all on herself.

This is where Alice's sweetness and tendency to nurture sometimes gets her in trouble. This is where her sense of loyalty and obligation, her genuine and caring nature is stomping all over her sense of self-preservation.

I give the pen another forceful spin, watching as its rotation slows and the blur of its motion gradually clears, letting it twirl eventually to a stop.

My Ali is stuck in that blur. She's stuck in a mess of false _should's_ and _ought to's_ and _can'ts_, and seeing her trapped and feeling helpless just breaks my heart and pisses me off all at the same time. I can't fight her battles for her, but I can't sit here and do nothing either.

She's my rock, and I'm hers.

My chair scrapes roughly along the floor as I push back from the table and stand. Three paces and I can press myself up against her back, sneak one arm around her waist, and rub my warmer-now face into the short hair at the nape of her neck. Her hair is so soft. Even the razor-short bristles here are fine and silky like baby hair. I can smell the exotic sweet-spice-smoke of that girlie lotion she wears and more faintly the scent of her clean hair.

Her posture is stiff, tense in my arms. I massage the muscles in her shoulders on one side and nuzzle her neck on the other. She starts to thaw just a little; her shoulders relax with a little sigh as my hand at her waist creeps up to trace the underside curve of one breast over her clothes. I love this spot – the soft rise of it, the way the flesh gives under my touch – and I wish there wasn't any fabric in the way. My hand creeps higher, fingers tracing circles and spirals, thumb trailing along the V-shaped line where her cami gives way to bare skin. I'm torn between wanting to keep chasing the hint of nipple budding under my fingertips and wanting to dip my thumb into that space between her breasts where the cups of her bra meet in the middle. Now that I've got my hands on her I'm feeling greedy; I want it all at the same time, damn it.

"Maybe you should be helping me with the dishes instead of grabbing my tit."

There's a tease in her voice and a curve to her cheek, but I can tell by the way the soapy water sloshes in the sink that she's trying to will away or just bury all that despair I saw on her drawing pad.

She needs a way out of the blur, the chaos in her head that keeps steering her in circles. She needs clarity and focus and maybe a little kick in the pants to remember what kind of stuff I know she's made of.

She needs a heavier hand tonight.

The knowledge is a tendril of smoke curling up my spine, a stirring of banked embers, and my hand stills on her shoulder. There's a part of her that just _needs_ this sometimes. And there's a part of me that _wants_ it. I slide my fingers up into her hair, get a grip, tip her head back. My words, like my touch, are gentle but undeniably firm. "Leave them."

I tongue a wet line along her throat, my hand tightens with intent in her hair, and my voice is suddenly sooty with the way I need to give this to her, need to take this from her. "I have other plans for you, kitten."

I hear the sharp intake of her breath as she registers the edge to my tone and the pet name we save for a very particular kind of interaction. Her hands still, letting the sponge float away and the tea cup sink to the bottom of the basin.

I take my hand from her breast and yank the straps of her top and her bra down her shoulder. It's unexpected and rough enough to make her gasp at my aggression but not enough to tear them. Money's tight enough as it is. And besides, now I can see that my girl is wearing my favorite bra – the black velvety one with the little embroidered cherries. It looks perfect with her pale skin, her dark hair and especially her cherry red lips.

I would bet money she's wearing the matching panties, too.

It's not real velvet, it's velour or something, but ever since that first time she brought them home and I couldn't stop touching them (and her and her in them) she just calls them her "pet-me" knickers. I don't even give her the chance to brat this time and tease me with her little sing-song voice (_Belll-aaahr, won't you pet my kitty?_) before I've got my hand up the front of her skirt and down her leggings and _fuck, yes_ she's wearing them.

But not for long.

I toe my boot between her platform maryjanes, nudging her into a wider stance, and now I can get the width of my hand between her legs, flat against her heat. I press my palm against her, trapping her to me, and strum my fingers over her slit. She sags slightly in my arms as her breathing changes, her hands tensed against the counter's edge.

The feel of that texture – a silken, rippling downiness that mats under my caress as her moisture begins to dampen the fabric – is my undoing. I push it aside, and as my middle finger dips into her, my open mouth finds the pliant flesh over her bare shoulder and bites down. Hard.

Another sharp inhale that sounds like a hiss and her exhale is a high-pitched lingering note.

I release the bite slowly as she steadies herself against the counter. Swallowing hard against my rising desire, I take a few deep breaths to collect myself, gain control of my breathing and my voice. It would be easy to get lost in just this rough pleasure of give and take, tempting as it is, but my girl needs more than that from me tonight. Drawing myself up to my full height, I turn Alice by the shoulders to face me.

"You've let me down, kitten."

She winces when the words land. My disappointment stings. But I know it's not half as painful as the choking humiliation she suffers under Paul's thumb or the dull ache of disappointment in herself for allowing the situation to continue on his terms.

"You _let_ that dog mistreat you again today, didn't you?" Her mouth opens, shuts again quickly.

"You've forgotten how strong you are, kitten. I'm going to remind you." Staring down at her, I watch her expression intently, "Go get my hairbrush."

She knows exactly what I'm asking of her. This is the decision point; it's in her hands and I will respect her choice. If she says no then we'll just find another way to reconnect and to get through this issue about Paul. But if my instincts are right…

Her eyes close heavily. She wets her lips with her little pink tongue. My nostrils flare. I know exactly where I want that tongue.

When her eyes open again, the soft set of her features is unguarded, trusting.

"Yes, B."

Not _Bells_ or _Beller_ or even _Isabeller Marie!_ Just _B_.

_Yes, B._

"You need this, don't you kitten? You need me to take care of you and help you get back on track."

There's no doubt in her voice, only relief. "Yes, B."

Two simple words that mean everything – the sound of her consent echoes in my brain. My heart twists with the sweet gift of her trust and with it hot coals in my belly glow. The smoke in my spine curls higher. I feel taller; my chest swells. I have the impulse to grab her by the hair and conquer her mouth.

I want to.

I can.

So I do.

Sleek black hair in my grip and her mouth falls open in surrender. I find her tongue, press my mouth against hers until I feel the biting edge of her teeth, taste her breath, suck on her bottom lip like I'm dying of thirst. Tip her face up and back by my grip in her hair so I can break the kiss and look into her eyes.

"There's my brave girl," I praise her, smoothing the palm of my hand down her breast, pushing cami and bra out of my way. I pinch the protruding nipple just hard enough to make her inhale audibly. "Hairbrush. Now. And come back to me barefoot."

Quietly Alice slips around the corner into our room to fetch the brush and remove her shoes. She's a tiny thing, and though I'm only average height, my boots add an inch or so. Take away her platform shoes and it's a striking difference that works in my favor.

I move towards the sofa while she's gone, pulling off my thermal shirt and quickly braiding my long brown hair, securing it out of the way with the elastic I keep on my wrist. My adrenalin is flowing, and it's getting too warm in such a heavy shirt. The black racerback tank I'm wearing underneath fits snugly over my breasts and waist and shows off my shoulders, arms, and the ink I wear on my skin.

I plant my tough-as-shit boots slightly more than hip-width apart and tuck my thumbs into the front of my jeans on either side of my belt buckle as I wait. The fire is stoked, the smoke rising.

Soft footfalls announce my kitten as she pads into the room, her signature cherry red toenail polish now in view. I watch as she stops a few feet in front of me, hairbrush in hand, face modestly down-turned. Her skirt is askew and the straps of her cami and bra are still hanging off her shoulder. It thrills me to see her hair so disheveled, the skin of her neck still red from my bite, and she hasn't tried to right her clothing. Does she know what that does to me?

I take my time looking at her standing there in still and silent anticipation. Smooth black hair ends at her chin and neatly sets off the sensual contour from earlobe to shoulder to the heavy bow of her breast and the fat juicy cherry nipple on top. She's petite but her curves are all woman.

She's on edge from the tension of the day and alert for my next move, but the measure of her breathing tells me she's getting into the rhythm of this, too. Ali's been suffering and she needs me; she's offering the ultimate trust and I have a serious responsibility here. And sparking through it all is a live-wire of electricity, the high-voltage current of this sexually-charged ritual. I reach up to rub my knuckles over my lower lip, an unconscious habit. Her distinctive scent is on my hand. I suck my middle finger into my mouth, my tongue searching for her taste.

Rich and earthy. A hint of salt. Slightly tart.

When I can't find any more of her on my skin, I step forward and pull the straps down on the other side to match. I want more though, and I tug until bra and cami both slip down to her waist, the straps hanging loosely below her elbows – just a faint impression of restraint.

For now.

Taking the hairbrush from her hand, I stroke the flexible plastic bristles. Outside the ordinary sounds of city life ticks along – tires on pavement, a buzzy motorbike engine, the creak and rumble of a lorry – but in the silence of our flat there is only the sound of her breathing and mine and the low crackle as the filaments bend and spring back under my thumb.

Ali's eyes dart just once from the floor to the brush in my hands and to the floor again. I circle behind her, lightly trailing the bristles across the bare skin of her back. At this pressure it's a barely-there rasp that's almost as much tickle as scratch, and I watch the downy hairs on her skin rise in its wake. The brush glides gently down the slope of her spine and the curve of her skirt as it follows her tail. I let it drift away from her skin and then with a flick of my wrist I bring the back of the brush down hard against the palm of my other hand–

CRACK!

The sound makes her jump. I gauge the sting in my hand and how long it lingers. The blow feels much harder here so close to the bone than it will against the flesh and muscle of kitten's backside, but it's a practical way to calibrate how much force to use and where to draw the line. Though I don't think I'll actually need to use the brush tonight. My hand is usually more than enough, but the brush is a symbol – the potential for its use is part of setting the scene.

I give her a quick little pat on the butt. It's light and over her skirt; there's not much to the physical feeling. It's all mental at the moment. And that's really the point, isn't it? It's my job to push the right physical buttons, to pluck the right mental strings, and to help Ali drop out of the chaos in her brain and into clarity of her body.

With one finger I slip the straps of her clothing down one forearm, wrist, hand, and then the other. She's going to need the mobility.

"Knees, kitten."

She sinks gracefully to the floor – not rushing but not hesitating either. She's right here with me. I sit in the middle seat of the sofa and pat my lap. Her eyes are lowered but she can see the motion of my hand in her peripheral vision.

It's not far to crawl – our flat just isn't that big – but there is a certain thrill to seeing her come to me on hands and knees, not just because I said so, but also because I know she wants to. There's a delightful pale pink on the apples of her cheeks that spells out the embarrassment of being caught at something one "shouldn't" enjoy. It's different than the splotchy red of her anger or the way she goes terribly pale when someone shames her. There's no shame for her here. There is only acceptance: our love, our rules.

The flush on her face is also an echo of the excitement, the freedom of being let loose in her body – I can see it in the sultry sway of her hips, the glitter in her eye as she looks up at me from under her long lashes, and the slow, sensual, heavy-pawed movements of a cat on the prowl.

Kitten crawls up and lays herself out across my lap just the way we both like it. I put the hairbrush on the cushion just in front of her. Whether I use it or not I need to warm her up by hand first. Being able to see it, knowing that it's there within my reach...

She's soft and warm in my lap, yielding. My heartbeat is quickening.

I smooth both hands under her skirt and over her rear, squeezing and kneading for a moment before flipping her skirt up. Just yank them down or…? I let my blunt fingernails bite slightly into her skin and so, so slowly I build the suspense of the reveal, peeling her leggings and pet-me knickers down over the full curve of her luscious ass.

Elbows out and hands tucked under her cheek so I can see her turned face, her bare breasts are flush with the scratchy fabric of our old sofa. Her cami and bra are twisted wantonly around her waist with her pushed-up skirt, and her ass and her kitty are on shocking display.

"Ohhh, kitten," I breathe, and it's almost a moan. "You look so deliciously lewd like this."

My praise makes her shiver. With a wicked grin I bring my hand down against her skin with a quick snap. "Hold still!"

She mews in surprise, and then freezes. I give her bum a pinch. _I heard that._

This time she stays quiet, and I pause until I can hear the smooth cadence of carefully measured breathing that says _ready_ and _more_.

No leggings or panties in the way this time – just smooth, soft skin that warms under my hands as I knead and squeeze her flesh. Rake my fingertips from the small of her back to the back of her thighs. Tease her slick pink bits with a light brush of my knuckles.

I reach my left hand underneath her, feeling for her little button. I find it with two fingers and press. It's hot under the pads of my fingers and _oh Christ_ I can't help but remember the way it feels under my tongue. Almost without conscious thought my hand lifts and then drops, landing with a _smack_ against the sweet fleshy swell of her ass and my body responds like I'm plugged directly into that sound and the sting in my hand that made it. The way my pulse races, the wet I feel between my legs, the slight bounce in my knee. The rising smoke that curls up my spine.

She shifts slightly, trying to widen the space between her legs despite the limitations of the leggings bunched around her knees.

"You like this, too, don't you kitten. You don't just need it, you want it."

"Yes, B," she sighs.

Swinging again, fingers landing first and followed by palm, more stinging slaps bring notes of rosy blush to her skin. The blows are light but the color remains even after the sting fades. The slight acceleration of her breathing is more from the circle and press of my touch on her clit and the thrilling snap that breaks the silence each time my hand makes contact than from any real pain.

The palm of my hand warms too. The sensation lingers, fading less quickly and building with slap after slap. My fingers slip more fluidly over her clit as her body reacts. It would be so easy to get swept away in this piece – to spank and finger her to climax just for the pure unadulterated pleasure of watching my girl get off in my hands.

I pause to pull off my tank and drop it over the arm of the sofa before I rub down her sensitized skin, kneading the now-warm muscles. There's a reason she needs a heavy hand today. I shake my head and marshal my thoughts, making sure my anger at her dog of a boss doesn't show up in my touch. My Ali does not need to put up with his abuse. No woman does.

And we both know she can stick up for herself better than that. Just because she's laid out over my lap, ass and kitty under my hands and on display, doesn't mean she's weak or a victim. She just needs to feel her power again.

I can help her with that.

Raising my arm a little higher this time, I aim for the fullest curve of her backside. There's a quiet but satisfying thud that sets the muscle quivering and really gets her attention.

"You know why I'm disappointed, don't you, kitten?" She closes her eyes and bites her lip, her shoulders tensing.

"You forgot something, something important." I punctuate my words with more thudding smacks.

"You forgot that _you_ belong to _me_." I pause, let my words land on their own, let the weight of them sink in and linger.

"Don't you." It's a question but the authoritative tone in my voice makes it clear what answer I'm expecting.

"Yes, B." I swallow hard at the plaintive note in her voice. I hate to add to the guilt she already feels but Alice has placed her trust in me, given me the control, now it's time for me to take her where she needs to go.

"You're mine, kitten. Mine." I make every word count with the weight of my hand landing on her skin. At the same time, the force of the smack jolts her body so that her clit gets more pressure from my fingers. "Aren't you."

"Yes, B," she answers with a little more volume.

"And my kitten is a fighter, an alley cat."

"Yes, B."

My palm lays down a syncopated pattern of light slaps and heavier blows, covering her ass and making it bloom brighter red under the short but intense burst of my words. "You belong to me. I'm the queen bitch around here. If that dog comes sniffing around you again you hand him his ass, 'cause he's not allowed to treat my alley cat like that. You're my strong girl. You're stronger than that and you know it."

I rub her burning backside roughly as she struggles to catch her breath. When she takes too long to respond, my hand lands quickly again with a ringing slap. "Answer me."

"Yes, B," she gasps.

This isn't about raw unfiltered pain – she could get that anywhere. This is about intense sensation and suspense mingled with pleasure and guidance and trust.

"He thinks you're weak. Not my kitten. You're stronger than that manipulative little shit, aren't you. So, so much stronger."

"Yes, B," and her voice is getting stronger, more clear.

"You forgot but you'll remember it this time, won't you kitten."

"Yes, B." It's like a mantra, a mediation of sorts as she sinks into the experience – the sting, the pleasure, the sound of my voice and the message in my words, her repetitive, positive response. I watch her body – watch her find her power, watch her shed the tension layer by layer, cutting her way out of the threads that trap her.

Indecision.

Snip.

Self-criticism.

Snip.

Guilt. Shame. Fear.

Snip. Snip. Snip.

Until she's resilient again – until her spine is no longer one single rigid rod but the series of supple joints meant to pulse and undulate with life, energy, fire.

"Look how strong you are. Can't you see how brave and fierce you are?"

The sting builds with each slap, intensifies, until the whole sensation reverses and the sharp electric connection as my hand lands brings more relief than the slow burn that remains when my hand drifts away, until she's backing up into it, looking for my hand to land earlier, harder, faster, and fucking herself on my fingers.

Her breathing gets quicker, shallower, until it spikes as a gasp and the only way to take the pain in and break it apart is that long slow inhale… pause… exhale… pause… repeat.

There it is.

And for Alice – because I know her so well, know how deep she loves, know how much she takes on – I know there's one string left to cut. This one is the least rational, the most emotional, and runs the deepest.

"It's not your fault, kitten." _Smack._

Silence.

"It's _not_ your fault, kitten." _Smack._

She nods tightly this time. I'm not fooled. We're not done with this yet.

"It's **not** your fault, kitten." _Smack._

Deep inhale, loud exhale. Nods again. "Yes, B."

Almost there but not quite.

"Kitten, it's **not**…" _smack_... "**your**…" _smack_… "**fault."** _smack_.

She's holding her breath through it this time and holds it still in the silence after the last time my hand lands. I'm holding my own breath, frozen in anticipation, waiting, waiting, the seconds tick by and suddenly Alice's shaking sob of an exhale explodes the quiet and I can breathe again. Speak again.

"What are you going to do the next time he says something? What are you going to do the next time he touches you without your permission, without _my_ permission? What are you going to do, kitten?"

"I'm going to kick his bloody arse!"

There's my fighter. There's my hissing spitting alley cat. I gather her into my arms, stroke her face and kiss her deeply as she comes down.

"You've been so strong, kitten. Worked so hard, haven't you?"

"Yes, B." Now the words are a sigh so relaxed – so effortless and complete, so devoid of any struggle of conscience or negative thought. I feel a clench inside my ribs and my eyes start to sting. I'm so full of love for my strong, brave girl it almost overwhelms me.

Underneath that though my brain is a buzzy euphoric jumble and my body is humming.

"Kitten," I coo and she opens her eyes to look at me. She is so exquisitely open right in this moment, so raw, so trusting. "Don't I take good care of my girl? Don't I always give you exactly what you need?"

Her face shines with reverence as she whispers, "Yes, B."

"Don't you want to thank me now?"

"_Oh yes_, B," she entreats. I tap her flank and she slides off my lap, waiting for my instruction.

"Unlace my boots."

She makes quick work of my laces, slipping my boots and socks off my feet. She places each one carefully to the side and folds the socks together as well. I wouldn't actually care if she threw them over her shoulder after getting them off me. This need for neatness and order is all Alice. I let her have what she needs now so that I have her full attention after.

When she is done, I stand. "Undress me."

She loves this part and so do I.

Kitten leans up onto her knees and reaches for my belt buckle, her slender fingers unclasp it and then slide into my pants to undo the buttons one by one – the tiny enticing touches make the muscles in my belly flutter. Her fingertips are so soft as she gently pulls down my jeans and skull and crossbones girl-boxers together, helping me to step out of them. I sit, curb my impatience, and wait as she folds these too, even my damn underwear.

Deep breath in. Slow exhale. She wants to serve me.

I mean to let her.

Hands on thighs and down-turned face serene, she lets me know that she's finished. Ready. I scoot to the edge of the sofa and lean back against the cushions, legs spread wide and one knee hooked over the arm. Then I crook my finger at her and point to my pussy. I'm done with waiting. I want her mouth on me.

She puts one soft hand on the top of each of my feet and smoothes them up my legs, her touch slow and light and almost ticklish along the insides of my thighs until she reaches that sensitive crease where limb meets hip.

My breathing deepens and I sink more heavily into the cushions behind me, watching in heavy-lidded fascination as she finally leans in. The sight of her little pink kitten tongue darting out to lap me up is almost too much already and I give up the struggle to keep my eyes open. Long, slow licks start soft and shallow and my entire focus is drawn to the sensation. Each drag of her tongue over dip and valley registers twice – once at the nerve endings in my skin directly under her touch and again as flames of hot and cold fire licking at the base of my skull.

I cover her hands with my own. She reads me just right and grasps my thighs more firmly, little kitten claws biting into my skin, the strokes of her tongue getting stronger, deeper. The heat and wet between my legs is growing, growing and the purring hum of satisfaction she makes as she drinks me up goes straight to head.

I open my eyes to watch. I have to see her face. My chest is heaving, my pulse is racing, and my kitten is devouring me like I'm her last meal – lips and tongue, sucking my flesh into her mouth, the slow even pressure or teasing scrape of her teeth. I let it build, build, build as long as I can stand it, and when I can't ride that edge any longer I put one hand in her hair and direct her mouth to my clit.

She gives me exactly what I need to take.

When I let myself go, let myself shatter with my thighs shuddering on either side of her head as her kitten tongue flicks over my clit, it's that grip I have on her hair, holding her tight to my center that anchors me, keeps me from getting lost in the storm.

I'm boneless, immobile as I float down, and for many moments the only part of me that can move is the barest brush of my fingertips through the straight silky strands of kitten's hair. She moves up so her head rests on my left breast. Arms wrapped warmly around my waist, her own soft full breasts press against my belly as she listens to my thundering heart. She holds me together until my body comes back under my control. Sometimes I wonder if she even understands how completely she owns me.

I let the ends of her hair slip through my fingertips and slip one hand between us and down to find her. She is still wet, still wanting. Bites her lip and squirms minutely under my touch, then covers a yawn with her delicate hand. My sweet kitten is exhausted. After all she's been through tonight already, the huge physical and emotional peaks she's already climbed, if I tucked her into bed with her head on my shoulder she would probably drop off quite easily into a heavy sleep. But after all that, I can't let her go without giving her some sweetness first.

One finger under her chin tips her face up to mine for a kiss and my reaching hand slides around to her bum. "Bedroom. Now," I speak quietly against her lips and punctuate the order with a tiny swat to her still tender ass.

My hands are on her hips and my lips on her shoulder as I follow her down the short hall, urging her to step out of her remaining clothes and leave them in a trail behind us. Once in our room I pull back the covers and lay her down gently in our bed. Her eyes are soft, her smile is soft, and her body is relaxed as I hover over her, dropping kisses on any spot that calls to me. Cheek. Belly button. Knee.

Ali raises her arms over her head, crossing her wrists over each other as they rest on the pillow. She's still my kitten just a little while longer.

Leaning back on my knees, I run my fingertips from wrist to elbow, down arm, over ribcage, teasing collar bones, sternum, the side of her breasts, enthralled by the way her skin responds, the way her nipples tighten and darken. The flames in my spine had died down a little – cooling somewhat in the wake of my satisfaction against her mouth – but the living, breathing, touchable fantasy come-to-life under my hands rekindles the fire.

I think of the black vinyl bondage tape and safety scissors in the drawer of our bedside table, chew my lip as I weigh possibilities and desire against needs.

Another night I can tie her up and push her to orgasm after orgasm just to see her fall apart on my tongue and my fingers and our toys until she can't take any more. But tonight I just need to cherish her, to lavish her with kisses and soft touches just like this.

Instead of opening the drawer, I pull the elastic out of my hair and run my fingers through it to loosen the braid. The soft smile on kitten's face changes when I let the long strands drape onto her naked body. Her mouth goes lax as I make the soft ends drag and tease.

It's time to remind her how soft and gentle these same hands can be, stroking and touching every part of her from the shell of her ear to the tender spaces between each of her toes. I use my hands, my hair, let my calves and thighs slide against hers, and drink up her breathy gasps and little hums of pleasure.

I shift myself over her, holding some of my weight up on my hands planted next to her ribs and letting some of my weight press against her. One of my legs is hitched over her thigh, her opposite thigh hitched up over my hip, opening and lining us up together. A slow roll of my hips makes me glide wetly over her kitty and pulls a soft cry from her lips.

"Feel good, kitten?"

"Mmmm," she purrs, "Yes, B." She laughs softly, the sound pure happiness as her eyes blink heavily and open again to meet mine. I lean down to capture her lips and Ali reaches up to smooth my hair out of our faces and run her fingers through it. Sometimes the only reason I keep this long mess of hair is because Alice loves it so much.

We continue to kiss as I slide and roll rhythmically against her – languidly at first, then increasingly more desperately as heat and sensation builds between us. My breasts brush over hers with every pass and Ali uses one hand to palm me and the other hand to tease her own nipple to a hard peak. My calves tense and my toes dig into the mattress for leverage as I work us toward our pleasure.

I buck against her harder, slapping our bodies together on every thrust and dragging clit over clit on every retreat, driving her towards her orgasm and chasing my own. Ali breathes heavily through her open mouth, little sighs and cries on every exhale. My mouth is open over hers, tasting her song on my tongue and drinking her breath. I want to consume her but not in a use her up kind of way because Alice is the light that can't be put out. She is warm sun breaking through a cloudy day, and her eyes are shining so brightly, and I love her so fucking much.

I choke back an unexpected sob as we go over that edge together with a timing to our crescendo that I couldn't have written if I'd tried. We shudder and pulse against each other, clutching and crying out and gasping for air. This moment, God or the Goddess or the infinite or whatever the fuck is out there is right here, right now because _this_ is the infinite. This, this, this.

I flop down on my back and start to pull the sheets up to cover us, but a wiggly fingertip nudges me between the ribs. "Better set the clock, _Isabeller Marie_. You've got dish duty in the morning." Her voice is sleepy, completely sated, and slightly amused.

Isabella Marie Swan. I swear, isn't that the girliest name ever saddled on a dyke in all of human history? But that accent kills me – I love the way my name sounds coming out of Ali's mouth. I reach for the alarm clock and set it without complaint. Dish duty was worth it.

Rolling back towards Alice, she's already curled up and ready to spoon. I scoot right up behind her until there is no space between us. My sweet girl takes my hand and tucks it between her legs. She sighs and the sound is pure contentment, just like a kitten's purr. "I do, you know… belong to you."

I press kisses to her neck and also the spot on her shoulder where I bit so hard earlier. She reaches back and finds a section of my hair, wrapping it around her wrist like it's rope and she's tying herself to me.

At the same time, she does have me by the hair.

"I know, Ali." I kiss the mark I made one more time before we succumb to sleep. "We belong to each other."

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